


in the moment,

by perias



Category: Original Work
Genre: Atlas - Freeform, Cassandra - Freeform, Gen, Lia - Freeform, Merle - Freeform, Ripley - Freeform, Sirius - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:22:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3164558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perias/pseuds/perias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there's not much to say, and we're all fine with that. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>(writing "sketches" between OCs, written for practice.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just thought I'd upload some more writing onto the site. Conversations between various OCs. 
> 
> A/N: Namudin are basically people with horns; they used to live in a place called the Jungle before a cataclysmic event forced them into human cities. They're not treated very well in the north.

It was well past midnight when Lia came to sit with him, the fire dangerously close to puttering out. He hadn’t noticed, at first, too lost in the noise of the jungle. Even now, this late, the jungle was _never_ quiet. A part of him thought he should feel annoyed; another part of him screamed, ‘home, home’, the noise somehow comforting and familiar.

“Hey.” Atlas looked up, into a sleepy but somehow alert face. Lia looked back at him, her eyes crinkled in a friendly smile, the ember’s weak glow giving her face a sinister appearance.

“Hey,” he replied, looking back at the fire. He reached over and placed another log onto the flames, watching as the fire consumed the wood, the edges of the bark curling and crackling.

“You can go to bed now,” Lia said, her words hardly above a whisper. “It’s my turn for watch.”

“Oh,” said Atlas, somewhat dumbly. He didn’t feel tired, didn’t feel that familiar pressing need to lay down on the pallet and let the warm oblivion of sleep wash over him. For some reason, he wanted to stay here, stare at the fire- let the moment stretch on and on. He didn’t talk to Lia enough. His mind whirled in a thousand different directions, going off on tangents that even he didn’t know existed.

“I guess you’re not tired, then. I don’t blame you, though, the Jungle is so noisy.” She settled down next to him, adjusting herself comfortably. She wasn’t wearing her pyjamas or her travel clothes, Atlas noticed, just a plain serviceable tunic that had quite obviously seen better days.

A long silence stretched between them as Atlas struggled to find his words. The sounds of the forest around them descended noisily upon their heads, loud and quiet and everything in between. He breathed in, tasted the balmy night air, the thickness of the world around them. It was beautiful, he thought, so supremely right, where he belonged. He felt content, but he had to say something.

“…Not. It’s not noisy.”

“What?”

“The Jungle. It’s not noisy… it- it sounds like home. More than any place I’ve ever been to, even my own house.”

How could he put the feeling into words? A feeling of finding something he’d never known he’d lost, of realizing he probably would never be able to part with it again… Of home. Of peace, of love, of a world untouched by the mechanisms of daily life. He had never felt the world so alive before, the jungle so much like a mother (and he had a mother, wasn’t he lucky, but it was bizarre how right it felt to think of the Jungle as a mother). He wanted to live in the odd stillness between nighttime and daytime forever and yet he knew without a shred of doubt that he could not stay in the Jungle.

Lia looked at Atlas, her gray eyes searching his face, and he licked his lips for a moment, unsure of what made him say that. Her face crinkled into another smile, a rueful grin, and she looked ahead at the fire again.

“Yeah, I guessed it would be like that for you. I’m half,” she said, as if that explained everything. “I… wouldn’t know.”

Another long pause, but pregnant with understanding and the familiar ache of home, home. Atlas had two homes –one was with Merle, the other with this beautiful dangerous unfathomable Jungle. He didn’t know which one he wanted more.

“Is this what magic’s like for you, then? Sometimes I can almost hear the call,” Lia admitted, once again looking at Atlas. “Not often, though, and then it’s just back to the cicadas and birds in the trees and that weird rustling noise.”

“I… It’s like putting on a glove, or something. Or reaching for your leg,” began Atlas, frustrated at his lack of examples. “I don’t really know how to explain it, it just feels so natural, so right. Even though every time I use magic, I feel like another little part of me is being chipped away. But it feels so freeing, so… what’s the word? Catartic?”

“Cathartic, I think. Relaxing, freeing, that sort of thing, right?”

“Yeah, I heard it from you!” He grinned and settled down, the spell broken, words spilling out of him like a summer storm. “Man, I don’t get Merle sometimes. He’s so uptight about spelling. Who cares about spelling when you can talk just fine?”

“Spelling is important,” admonished Lia. “You need it to make other people understand what you’re saying. And what if you misspell bear? You might get something completely different.”

Atlas shrugged, his face crinkling into an extremely put-upon expression. “Well, then, I’ll just not use it.” He turned to look at Lia. “So, what about you? What’s using normal magic like? Is it cool? I mean,Cassandra can make these great big gigantic fireballs go anywhere she wants to!”

He quieted down when he saw Lia’s expression, inscrutable and old and so sad.

“Normal magic is so… cold.” Lia looked vulnerable for a moment, her arms wrapping unconsciously around herself. “Like it doesn’t want me to use it. Like what I’m doing is wrong.” She looked at Atlas. “I’ve never been able to master the higher level spells. It just backfires, horribly, y’know?”

Atlas nodded. He understood that feeling all too well, but unlike Lia, he couldn’t even use the basics.

She stared away, looking at the tents where their friends were sleeping. “It’s probably because I’m half. Human and Namudin. They’re mutually exclusive, no matter how badly I want them not to be.”

Lia pursed her lips into an expression of dissatisfaction, attempting to inject some levity into their conversation. She unwrapped her arms from around herself and gave a few spine-popping stretches.

“It’s hard, you know? Being human, being Namudin. Everyone has all these…these expectations of you and it’s all ruined when you don’t fit comfortably into the mold. I’m too Namudin to be human, too human to be Namudin. I don’t belong in either world.” Her voice was taking on an increasingly frustrated cast, and Atlas scrambled to say something.

“But you’re an expert on-“

Lia fixed him with a glare. “One of the only experts. Nobody takes Namudin history seriously, not even the Namudin themselves. But what does that matter what I can do? I’m an aberration, a freak of nature, something that isn’t supposed to happen. Magic’s the lifeblood of the planet and it won’t even respond to me. All because I’m a half and I shouldn’t exist.” She let out a deep sigh. “Sorry, Atlas. I…I got worked up, didn’t I? You probably think I’m being a privileged brat. Complaining about something as trite as magic. Magic!” She waved her hands in a frustrated arc.

“Lia?”

“What?”

“I…” What was he going to say? What could he say? “You’re more than human. Or Namudin. Or half. You know.” He paused. “I don’t think anybody really cares about magic. About the Jungle, about anything, really. It’s all about living the way you want to, making sure you can, I mean, and…”

Atlas scratched his head.

“And if that’s what you’re doing, I think… I think you’re winning. ” He babbled. “Yeah, I’m a little jealous. Merle and I are slum rats, you know? Bottom feeders. Street rats. Stuff like that. All we’ve ever got to experience was… _is_ survival. Things like where’s our next meal’s coming from? Who’s paying the rent? Just scraping by, every day. We were the lucky ones, too.”

“And, Lia? I don’t think what we are can define what we do. You… we… all of us, really, are so much more than that. Just like Cassandra isn’t what she seems or Rip either. Sirius, too. So, um, yeah.”

He cut off suddenly. The words were gone, he had no more to say. Atlas hoped, sincerely, that he had gotten the message across. He peeked over at Lia, expecting a sort of glazed indifference or badly hidden offense. He had been rambling, hadn’t he? It was everything he wanted to say and more, he thought. He wasn’t good at this, never had been.

Lia gave Atlas a tiny smile, more subdued than her sunny, everyday smiles but a smile that shone with relief and gladness. More genuine than her usual ones. Atlas’ heart swelled with pride. How many people had seen that? Two, maybe? Himself? The darkness of the night?

“Thank you, Atlas,” she whispered back, reaching for his hand and giving it a quick squeeze. He knew he hadn’t assuaged her fears, her insecurities. Hadn’t explained anything, really, other than a few infuriating half truths and vague blanket statements. But he hoped he had done something for Lia, and not the smiling happy distracted one, the one who used work to hide from the world.

“I don’t know if I helped,” Atlas began, and Lia shook her head.

“You did, Atlas, you really did. I haven’t had a talk like this in a while. Usually at this time it’s just me, and a book.” There was a short silence. “I wonder what it is about this time that makes everyone so…vulnerable?”

Atlas shrugged again, but she understood, words gone again.

He didn’t feel like talking much, anymore- not now, at least. Just content to bask in the still night air and listen to the cicada’s song. The silence stretched for a few seconds for an eternity) before Atlas finally decided to turn in for the night, saying good nights and goodbyes with a heartfelt sincerity.

He lifted the tent flap, looking behind him for just a second, and caught a glimpse of Lia sitting thoughtfully at the fire. He stood there, for just a second, contemplating, happy and sad and everything in between. By anyone's estimate, they were all nobodies, just pawns in some greater scheme, but Atlas couldn't care less. 

He was glad, Atlas thought as he yawned quietly. He was glad. 

Atlas laid down next to his best friend, watched the rise and fall of his chest, the dim play of firelight from the outside, heard the siren song of the Jungle, and fell asleep, a soft smile on his face.


	2. we're all just beasts

Dawn came fitfully over the horizon, peeking over the treetops and sending tentative rays of light onto the bloody and brutal scene below. Lives cut short, food for beasts.

The ground is stained red, treacherous with tangled limbs and discarded weapons snapped in halves, thirds, quarters.

Sirius thinks there’s some sort of delicious poetic meaning in the way these few soldiers had died, dispatched by just a skinny king and a scared, all-too human cadet. He’s still looking for it when Rip pads into view, his face contorting into expressions of regret and guilt as he closes the soldiers’ eyes with a sort of careful finality.

So, _so_ , human. Sirius wants to take him apart, see what makes Rip tick, break down the enigma that is Ripley. A soldier with a conscience, he thinks. Isn’t that funny!

“Hello, Rip!” he says, cheerfully bounding over the scattered bodies, not even sparing a glance for the dead.

The boy stares back at him, expressions of dumbfounded confusion pasted all over his face. Sirius sniffs himself. Surely, he can’t smell that bad? Or perhaps it’s the bodies. They are a bit ripe, and the heady smell of blood will probably draw some sort of wild animal.

“I… I can’t believe you, Sirius. We… we just killed! Killed all these men! They had families, and daughters and wives, and… how can you just… just dance around, like we’re at a party or something?”

“Us or them,” Sirius shrugs. Ripley’s eyes narrow, his mouth opening, and Sirius quickly adds “And we’ve been killing people all this time. What’s bothering your delicate human sensibilities now?” A low blow, probably, given how Rip’s face draws in on itself and his expression shutters, just a little bit.

“We need to bury these bodies before we go,” Ripley states, voice devoid of emotion, and it’s just that. A statement, like “the sky is blue”, or “onions make you cry”, and Sirius knows he’s overstepped his bounds. A small part of him clamors to push Rip more, to make him scream in anger, see red. He doesn’t.

Sirius decides to help Ripley out. They work in silence for a while, picking up broken weapons and kicking the bodies (like ragdolls, limp and yielding and hardly human) into a shallow depression. They don’t have time for a deeper grave, and Rip awkwardly shuffles some dirt and leaves over the bodies, Sirius watching the entire time.

He’ll have to change his shirt. It reeks.

Ripley gets up from his awkward crouch, from where he was giving prayers (prayers! Sirius wants to laugh), his back cracking but Rip making no sound.

“Who was your first?” Rip asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He gives the grave one last look and his eyes swing to the horizon, his hands shaking almost imperceptibly.

Sirius doesn’t think he realizes.

He sounds so broken, so deliciously human. Sirius wants to tease him, torture him a little more. Who knows what secrets he hides?

Both of them know it’s not about any sort of romantic trysts, and Sirius mentally thanks him for it.

“I was thirteen. He was stupid.”

Sirius remembers that one well, surprisingly, the man who refused to die until Sirius had finally, finally, in a fit of hormonal anger, taken the knife and twisted it in the man’s gut, watching as he bled out slowly. The name still eludes him. The reason why he’d killed him? He doesn’t remember. Still, Sirius regrets killing him so fast, thinking that any man stupid enough to try taking Sirius’s life deserves a slower, far more painful death.

Regicide is a crime punishable by death. Sirius had only expedited it. Courts were such tiresome things, plots doubly so. Dealing with traitors always took too much time, even though Sirius always made sure to interact with the traitors personally.

He hears Rip take a shuddery, deep sigh, an attempt to calm himself down, an attempt that fails miserably.

“I… It was a few years ago. Me and a few of my friends,” Rip begins, and Sirius makes an encouraging noise. He’s curious. “Guard duty. Field experience, you know?” He offers a jerky gesture that Sirius doesn’t bother to try to interpret.

Ah. Sirius had forgotten about Rip’s tendencies. How painfully mundane. Another steadying breath, and Rip continues.

“Toss a few kids out there. Give them a gun, a sword, and tell them to shoot people on sight if they get too close to the tower. I…I was fifteen, just turned fifteen. My birthday had been a week before. Mama had gotten me a new pair of boots.”

Sirius isn’t too sure why Rip is telling him all of this.

“A family, you know? They come up. They’re fleeing across the border, coming at us. The man’s got a bundle, and, and- “ his voice cracks, and Sirius resists the urge to roll his eyes in frustration. Too emotional, he thinks. Rip would make a terrible assassin, if he ever did try to kill Sirius.

(That’s a thought, he thinks quietly. If Ripley tried to kill him? Sirius would keep him alive as long as possible. He wonders what separates Rip from the other countless, faceless, dogs that have tried to kill him before)

 

“I shot him. I shot his wife. I shot his kid,” he wails, his voice rising hysterically. His hands rake through his hair, agitatedly. “I killed them just like I killed all these men! Following orders. Always following orders. ”

Sirius still doesn’t understand why he’s so broken up about these soldiers. They’re like toys, made to be used and chewed up and thrown away. Sirius has killed more, brutally, indiscriminately. Ripley has killed just as many, too, just on this journey. He glances over, dispassionately, at Rip’s shuddering form, watches the tears drip quietly down his face. Tiresome, he thinks. Perhaps tiresome. He’s not too sure.

(A little voice inside of him, that Sirius ruthlessly stamps down upon, whispers _Maybe it’s because he’s never had to see the products of his crimes before. Never had to bury their bodies and know that someone waiting for one of these poor saps will be waiting for a lot longer. Never had to confront it.)_

He doesn’t understand, but pretends to anyway, clapping Rip on his back and herding him away with comforting platitudes. The others will no doubt raise their eyebrows at the smell, but they will say nothing. The bodies will rot in the humid air not long after they leave and the animals will do their job admirably. Anybody looking for them will only find half rotten spear shafts and dented armor.

Sirius chuckles quietly once Ripley is pouring bucket after bucket of water over his head.

 

It’s funny, really, that they’re both _so_ broken. The model soldier and the ruthless murderer-king, both designed to kill and kill and rip people apart. They will survive, though, even if it means that they’re just a little less human, a little more demon.

Honestly, Sirius doesn’t mind.


	3. we grasp what we can

It’s a practice born of habit. A calming ritual, one that speaks of familiarity and home and _belonging_ , and Merle enjoys it whenever he can, even though Atlas is competent enough at braiding his own hair.

Cassandra doesn’t understand it, brusquely asks why Atlas can’t braid his own hair. Lia thinks it’s charming, like a brother she never had. Rip only looks on, looks sad, morose. Sirius is a question better left unanswered.

He leaves the thoughts behind, to be carefully catalogued away in his mind later. It is the _now_ he must focus on.

Merle slides the brush through Atlas’s long hair, gently working out the kinks and tangles, slowing down to an imperceptible crawl when Atlas flinches from Merle pulling the knots.

Again. The cheap brush glides through Atlas’ (clean, finally) hair. There are no tangles, no knots, no snarls, and Merle is reminded of simpler times, when there were no kings, no nobles, no lost soldiers, and just the familiar pattern of home and work and eat and survive. The brush itself, he thinks, as he sets it aside, is another relic of his past, a poorly built knickknack with a faux wooden handle that Atlas had picked up, years ago, in the market stalls.

Merle is still convinced that Atlas stole it, but who is he to condemn? He, who is a murderer, a thief, ten times a liar?

He is not bothered by his crimes. They are his way, his only way, of surviving in a world determined to stack all odds against them.

He won’t lie to himself,Merle muses, as he quietly sets aside the brush and begins braiding Atlas’ hair. What they have now is much better than what they had before, with the leaky sink breaking every other week and the no running water. Merle thinks that the one thing he will never ever miss is the constant haze of pollution that always lay over the city, that choking smell of refuse and magical waste.

It is no safer out here, even though the still quiet of the night is enough to lull most people into a false sense of security. At least the air is clean, though heavy with moisture, and at least there is no sink to worry about, no lack of money, no unscrupulous, greasy men.

Atlas’s hair is like silk against his calloused fingers, and it never ceases to amaze Merle that his clumsy clumsy hands can so deftly layer hair after hair into a neat braid.

He has killed, with these hands. He has done unspeakable deeds with these hands, and yet here Merle is, stained hands so, so close to Atlas’ neck. Merle marvels at how relaxed Atlas is, how trusting, and he thanks Atlas again, silently, for his second chance, for finding him.

(Once, he thinks, he had thought of how easy it would’ve been to kill Atlas, just like that, with his hands so near Atlas’ neck, but that distressing thought had been banished firmly into oblivion. He doesn’t dwell.)

Atlas is a rarity, an anomaly. Merle has never seen a person so happy in such terrible circumstances, and he is devoted, almost obsessed, with keeping Atlas innocent. He wants to keep Atlas happy, carefree (though he is not stupid, he _knows_ Atlas knows about the world far more intimately than any child should). Merle knows Atlas is no longer a child, but he desperately wants to keep Atlas safe, uncorrupted. He doesn’t care what it’ll cost him.

Atlas speaks, and draws Merle out of his reverie.

“Hey Merle?” Atlas says, quietly, and he tilts up to look at Merle. “You’re not gonna stay up again tonight, are you?”

He smiles from behind, finishes the braid, lets Atlas’ hair go reluctantly. He will never get used to that feeling of loss, even though he braids Atlas’ hair on a near daily basis. Merle says nothing (he can’t, anyway, but it doesn’t bother him much anymore).

“You better not!” Atlas says, more loudly, “Or I’ll kick your butt! And Rip’ll help me!”

Merle watches as Atlas hops to his feet, already raring to go, proud that the braid holds despite the amount of physical exertion he goes through on a daily basis.

“Come on, Merle! Let’s go already!”

Just like that, the spell is broken. It is no longer the two of them, but Merle and Atlas and everyone else, and the heat of the jungle greets Merle like an old friend.

It is only morning, but Merle knows that tomorrow the pattern will continue. Tomorrow will be yet another day of fighting, of tiredness, and of travel, but at least they will face it together.

He will protect Atlas, his precious brother and dearer friend. Who else will?


	4. we are more than we seem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra and Lia have a chat.

Cassandra winces as she adjusts her posture for what’s probably been the thirtieth time since she’s entered the ballroom. Parties. She mentally spits that word out with all the hate she can halfheartedly muster. She hates them, so, so much, hates them with every fiber of her being.

She’s “important”, though, and that makes her obligated to attend.

She takes a dainty sip of champagne, the elegantly fluted glass balanced textbook perfect in her hands, her index and pinky fingers resting only delicately on the glass. Cassandra’s not an alcoholic, not by any definition of the word, but part of her’s upset that she can’t get drunk here.

Briefly, she imagines making an utter fool of herself in the here and now, ripping off her skirts and dancing barefooted on the dinner tables. It would be so freeing, so relaxing, to kick the fine china off the table and watch the nobles stare in utter horror at her, the lady of the manor, behaving in such a way!

They’re just thoughts, though, she thinks resignedly, thoughts that never will come to fruition.

She can’t do it, at least not if she wants her parents to put up with her ‘unsavory’ companions for any length of time. Cassandra knows the only reason they’ve put up with the ragtag band for so long is because Sirius is a king. A figurehead, but a king nonetheless, and a powerful ally should things go south.

Cassandra loves her parents, _really_ , but sometimes it annoys her how closed off their minds are about certain things.

(in her head, a traitorous voice whispers, you _weren’t so different a month ago, were you?)_

Bored, Cassandra searches the politely mingling guests for her friends, hoping she can at least catch the eye of one of them, pretend she’s being very busy and fend off any bothersome people who might want to waste her time.

Sirius is surrounded by an entire gaggle of people, all young, all snappishly well dressed. Cassandra thinks she can see the blonde sausage curls of the young Comtesse in there, probably making eyes at Sirius. The man in question has an expression of blank but palpable murderous intent, something the hangers-on are a little too preoccupied to notice.

What a champ. She snorts quietly and turns away. Good luck there.

Her eyes sweep over a small commotion near the buffet table, and she sees Merle and Atlas, stuffing their faces in the most ridiculous way possible. They’re hungry, probably, and if the horrified looks on the party goer’s faces are any indication, being extremely rude.

Cassandra gives a tiny smile, hiding it with another tinier sip of champagne. She’s glad she met these two, even though she hated them at first. Cassandra knows that without them, her life would’ve been an endless cycle of parties and politeness and _maybe_ , if she’s _lucky_ a few practice matches against would-be suitors. A prize show horse, paraded out for people to admire and envy.

She spies Ripley, in his dress uniform, next to a miserable looking girl. If she strains she can hear what he’s saying, but it sounds like he’s just trying to calm her down.

“Look, Mary,” he says, and his voice is filled with kindness and patience, the knight in shining armor, “just because the Lord isn’t dancing with you again doesn’t mean he hates you! He’s just got lots of other people to be polite to, you know?”

The girl sniffles and murmurs something incomprehensible, her face buried into his chest.

“No, no… Mary, no, I’m not saying you’re ugly- No, that’s not what I’m… Mary, come on, it’s all right, you know?”

Cassandra wants to laugh because Rip is so, _so_ uncomfortable, and the girl’s hand is resting on his knee. Is she going for the pity card? Ripley is such a gentleman, without meaning to be, that he’ll break that girl’s heart again tonight. Cassandra pities that girl.

She places the now empty glass of champagne on the tray of a passing waiter and plucks another one, downing most of it neatly in a single gulp.

Her champagne is almost gone, she thinks ruefully, and she really shouldn’t be drinking very much more of it. Already she can feel a faint flush of heat on her cheeks, the pleasant sensation of inebriation descending behind her eyes.

She grabs another glass. She can’t remember if it’s her third, or fourth, or even fifth. What does it matter? She’s bored.

Somebody touches Cassandra’s arm and she reaches for her rapier, except- it isn’t there, she remembers, and she jerkily pretends to be readjusting her gloves. Hopefully her little faux pas hasn’t been seen by whoever’s been stupid enough to bother her, and she turns around behind her, all pleasant smiles and false charm. Hopefully she isn’t too drunk yet.

She turns and sees Lia, dressed in one of Cassandra’s dresses, looking too amused with herself.

Cassandra’s fake smile crinkles into a real one.

* * *

 

Lia pulls her away from the party and into the hallway, where it is so much quieter and so much cooler.

She closes the door behind her, shutting out the quiet buzz of conversation and music. Lia turns and eyes Cassandra. “Cassandra,” she begins. “Are you _drunk?”_

“Maybe,” Cassandra manages, and she can’t help but laugh, trying vainly to muffle her wild giggles. She looks at Lia. “It was boring,” and somehow she can’t stop laughing, even though she’ll probably be lectured again by Father, and by uptight Lia who can’t even-

“Well,” and Lia frowns, like she’s thinking hard, but her eyes are smiling. “Well, I guess I can’t blame you.”

She pulls out a bottle of unlabelled… _stuff_ and says, simply, “Wanna go get a drink?”

Cassandra’s face splits into a gigantic grin and she can’t remember ever, _ever_ agreeing as fast as she does at that moment.

* * *

 

They find themselves on an unused balcony with a rather unflattering view of the back of the house. Cassandra knows the place like the back of her hand, so she’s rather surprised that Lia has managed to find this little alcove. Somewhere along the way Cassandra sobered up somewhat, and the cool night breeze still comes as a shock.

She thinks she can smell the faint smell of roses from the tiny garden below.

“Here?” Lia says, and they sit down quickly, the dresses protesting mightily with each action that isn’t demure, quiet, graceful.

Quickly Lia fills the two glasses with amber liquid and hands one over to Cassandra. They don’t drink though, just sit there in the almost-too-cold nighttime chill, looking pensively over a still blue landscape. Her father’s rolling hills stretch before her, and for a second Cassandra wonders what Lia sees, whether she sees property or nature or nothing really at all. It’s not an uncomfortable quiet, but a friendly one. Words will only spoil the moment.

It’s strange, really, that she barely knows Lia even though they’ve traveled together for ages now, and that straight laced Lia – Lia, of all people!- would be the one to offer the alcohol. But she doesn’t refuse it.

“To being girls?” Cassandra says, and lifts her glass in a toast. The moonlight glints beautifully off the shiny surface, and the chipped glass is no fine artisan glassware, but Cassandra can’t bring herself to even think badly of it.

“To being _women_ ,” Lia corrects, and, laughing, they clink their glasses together.

They’re both girls, both women, and they understand each other better than they could ever imagine, even though Cassandra knows they have almost nothing in common.

The alcohol burns going down, tastes of wood and smoke, but somehow it’s the sweetest thing Cassandra has drank in ages.

Silently, she holds her glass out, and Lia obliges without a word.

Their dresses are fraying at the seams from running around, her makeup is probably running, and her feet are obscenely filthy, Cassandra thinks, but right now she’s enjoying every second of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Not really too sure how to use the tags, still.


End file.
